


Not All Roads Lead to Rome

by DarkShadeless



Series: Flowers and Honey [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Piercings, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Tevinter, ish, mostly implied - Freeform, not really but there's no actual sex in this part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 04:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Alain flees the Gallows just to be caught by slavers on the Wounded Coast. He does not get trapped in conspiracies that turn bloody or a desperate, pitched battle and last stand.Only time will tell what awaits him at the end of the road he takes instead.





	Not All Roads Lead to Rome

 

It’s the height of irony. Alain manages to get out of the Gallows, get away in the chaos that is the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall, only to be caught by slavers before he can cross the border to Nevarra.

Perhaps he was too busy looking behind him for pursuit to see the ambush waiting in the other direction.

Something blinds him, a flash of light. Then, before he can recover somebody must hit him over the head. It’s the only thing that explains how much it hurts when he wakes, why everything is swimming before his eyes.

That might also be the swaying of the ship, though. It must be a ship, he realizes all too soon. The floor and walls are wood, coarse and not all the way straight as a house would be.

He’s chained to the wall, next to someone else. Slowly, thoughts all muddled and confused, it dawns on him what has happened. There are many people here, all chained up and sharing an expression that ranges from hopeless resignation to seething defiance. It’s a mix he knows well. He had thought he had finally managed to leave it behind.

Everything he owns has been taken, not that there ever was much. Alain thinks he might cry. He wouldn’t be the only one, sobbing in the hold.

Days pass like that, maybe weeks. In irregular intervals someone will come and hand out food, hard pieces of dry tack and some water, under the watchful eyes of well-armed guards. Once every other day some of them are taken up to be rinsed off with salt water. It’s almost worse than staying filthy.

After the tenth day ( _Or is it? He has no idea. Time has started to lose all meaning._ ) Alain comes to the conclusion that they must know that he’s a mage. His magic hasn’t recovered, nor has his head. Everything is still swimming, he’s still nauseous. It might not be a concussion. Much more likely that he’s drugged. _Mage Bane_. The poison isn’t meant for long term use. His captors do not seem to care.

He barely manages to force down his meagre ration that night. _He’s not sure why he does it at all. Why he still hasn’t given up. Some have. They grow quiet, don’t eat and eventually they disappear._

It takes ages, to reach whatever destination they are headed for. When they finally do Alain tries not to count how many of them are left. He’s so weak. It’s not only the drugs, or being half starved. They haven’t been allowed to move much. There’s little strength left in any of them. 

It must be a Tevinter harbour. In no other country could they be debunked without a care for subtlety, right in the middle of the lively bustling of commerce. The sun is so bright after so long in the dark. It’s hot, almost as hot as the hold, only less stifling. Alain is struggling to keep the pace within minutes.

After a march that takes all strength he has left, they reach an open area that looks almost like a market square. There are cages of all sizes. In them, people. Most look just as bedraggled as he does. It’s almost a relief to be shoved into his own cage. He gets one for himself, while the rest of the group does not. Maybe because he is a mage? Does that set him apart? His Tevene isn’t good enough to understand what the slavers speak of over his head.

Again, days go by. He’s fed a greyish slob that still must be laced with Mage Bane. The haze in his mind as thick as ever. He’s too hungry not to eat. Does it matter? If they drug him? He has little hope of escape, here. He knows this. Knows a well-guarded prison when he sees one.

People come by to look at them, at the wares, but there are fewer of them than he would have thought. After a while, watching the patterns, he starts to understand why. Those aren’t customers. Or rather, they are but only in the way a butcher might go to the farmers market for live animals. Those are vendors themselves, trainers maybe. They always pick people, slaves, that have certain qualities. They always buy in bulk.

Every day new people are brought in and every day they are divided into groups by how they might best serve. No wonder he stands apart. His corner houses only a few, all of them in their own small cage, all with the scholarly, cowering looks of Circle Mages that know better than to fight a hopeless battle.

No one has come for one of them yet.

Alain starts to wonder if anyone will. What will happen if no one wants him. He doubts they will let him go, no matter what happens. _Oh, sorry for the inconvenience. Better luck next time._ He buries his face in his knees and tries to choke down the inappropriate laughter that threatens to rise at that image. The other mages inch away from him.

He must be a sight. Yet, he knows, for the first time in his life with certainty, that even now he wouldn’t fall to a demon if he could. Perhaps that’s the most darkly amusing thing of all. After all those years they had accused him of blood magic, of being weak, of needing to be _tested_ , he knows he would not fall. Not for himself. It would be pointless, wouldn’t it? He’d only sully his own soul.

But he doesn’t have his magic and there would be nothing he could do if he did. All Alain can do is wait, in the heat only tempered by the shade of the canvas above their pens, for what shape his fate will take.

 

 

It begins to form on a day like any other. It’s a crispy morning and they are woken harshly, made presentable by being doused right in their cages. He’s still shivering, huddled for warmth that will not come until later when the sun stands higher, that they come. Three people, two men and a woman, and a group of guards. She is beautiful, wearing more elaborate jewellery than he has ever seen before. The light playing off it catches his eye even hazy as he is. Or perhaps because he is.

The way they move about is strange. Most vendors that come know what they are looking for. They move with purpose to the tent that holds what they need. Not so this group, they seem to stop at every one of them. Sometimes they pick someone, sometimes they don’t. Rarely they take more than that from any section.

Eventually they reach his. They are made to get up, get out of their cage, so that the customers may look at them. The men stay back, eagle eyed, while the woman studies them closely. She stops in front of Alain. Reaches for his chin, tilts it this way and that, musters his face.

Then she steps back with a few words to her companions and the guards watching. They sound precise, decisive. While the rest of the mages are bundled back where they belong, Alain is marched to join the growing flock of those they’ve chosen.

He follows direction nervously, glances at the others out of the corner of his eye. He can’t tell what they have in common. There are young ones, a child even, and adults. One that must have been set aside for hard labour or guards work, with heavy muscle. Then there is him, too thin and weak from the journey but obviously more set for scholarly pursuits.

His buyers leave with only seven slaves. It’s the smallest group he has seen anyone take.

They are made to walk, through the waking city, Minrathous he now knows. It’s a beautiful sight but his own situation leeches all enjoyment from it he might take. The house they stop at is in a good district, with clean streets and well-dressed people even at this early hour. It’s expansive, almost opulent yet tasteful. Alain is reminded of the woman leading their procession.

They are brought inside and have to wait. One after the other, they take them away, deeper into the house. When it’s Alain’s turn and he is faced with a stern faced man taking notes, he realizes they’re being assessed.

He’s asked questions in Tevene he can’t answer. The man seems unhappy with that and he scribbles something down. Nevarran, finally Trade. “Do you understand me now? Say yes if you do.”

“Yes.” His voice shakes. He hasn’t spoken in a long time.

“Very well. You’ll have to learn Tevene, at the very least. Can you read?”

It continues in that manner. He is supposed to be a mage. What rank has he attained before leaving the Circle? Which schools of magic has he studied in the past? How proficient is he? How are his manners? Has he been taught in a specific style? Has he ever been expected to speak in front of an audience? Has he any combat or other experience of note? Does he play an instrument?

The entire thing is bewildering. Alain has never felt so naked, or so judged. Not even when they had eyed him up like a pound of meat before deciding where he would be put in the market. He answers all questions, because he doesn’t want to find out what happens if he does not, staring at his own hands where they are curled up in his lap.

Then comes the one that turns his stomach into a ball of ice. “Do you still have your virtue?”

He can feel the impatient stare of the man across from him. _Should he lie? Would they test him if he did? How would one even go about that?_

When he answers it’s not only his voice that is shaking. “No.”

After the questioning is over he is shown to a room and firmly told to clean himself up and get into a set of proper clothes. ‘Proper’ is not what he would call what they have laid out for him. It is very soft cotton, must be high quality to be so fine, but it is cut unmistakeably for other people to see him. To take pleasure in that.

His stomach hasn’t thawed. Every bit of a hint for what he has been bought for, what he will be, is worse than the next. Of all things. Of all things _this_.

It does make sense. He doesn’t have the strength to do hard labour and is not trained in a craft. A library perhaps, or translation, at the most but his insufficient knowledge Tevene would make such problematic. There were only two other things he might have been picked for, one being his magic, the other- Well, he had been picked for the other one.

Alain curls up on the bed that is now his. After a long moment the tears he hasn’t cried since he had been caught out on the coast, or even before that, start to fall.

 

 

The training is incredibly demanding. They drill the language into him first. For days his head will not stop pounding from the combination of learning so much and the last dregs of the drugs in his system. They don’t dose him anymore, at least. Instead, they’ve put him in a collar that doesn’t seem to have a lock. He can feel his magic through it, like he hasn’t since that morning on the coast. It’s beyond his reach, though, still. Perhaps if he pushed hard enough- _But._

He is well guarded here, just as he was before. He has little doubt that he would be caught on short notice if he tried to escape. Even if he had access to his mana, would he dare use it? Alain wonders what they would do to curb such a thing, should it occur. Probably nothing good.

So he studies, like a diligent student. If not for what was waiting for him on the other end of the lessons he might even have enjoyed them. Alain has always loved learning, reading just for the sake of reading.

He is too busy for that now. Every ‘hole’ in his education is prodded, assessed and then built upon. How he is to behave, as befits his place. How to hold his own in a debate or discussion, should his master so desire of him. How to arrange a tea ceremony properly. A hundred hundred different things he has never thought would be expected from a whore.

“Not a _whore_.” One of his fellow slaves, Lissanna, chides him when he says as much to her. “A bed slave, silly.” She says that as if it’s somehow better, sighs at his incomprehension. “We’ll be expected to entertain, to be a symbol of status. No whore will ever be able to compare to us. If we do well and keep our master’s attention we’ll live in luxury others of our caste can’t even imagine.”

Some of them, like her, are not unhappy with their future. Alain can’t say he is among them.

There are other lessons, he knows. Lessons he will be expected to take, seeing as he doesn’t have his virtue anymore either way. They’ll want his body as well prepared as his mind for the tasks he is to fulfil. Some things have already started, have already been done. His understanding of personal hygiene, for one, will never be the same. For another…

Alain has to bite his lip and force himself not to fidget with the piercings that have yet to fully heal. He has to dab them with alcohol every morning and evening. Maker but that had burned like Veil fire the first day and it got little better after that. Especially on his cock.

He’s very much not allowed to heal them with magic. Apparently there can be complications from that. He tries not to think about how they might have found that out.

His body feels a little alien, with the attachments, and Alain knows he isn’t fully adorned yet. Has seen the ones that are. His tongue will be next, has only been spared because he needed it for his language lessons.

His teacher has declared him passably fluent to hold his own in polite society earlier today. He swallows against the lump in his throat and tries to ignore the throbbing where he is still healing around decorative metal. It will not help to cry. He’ll only ruin his khol and be chided for that. 

The healer, the one that sets all their studs and rings the first time, thankfully dulls whatever place he’s piercing before he does so. Still Alain swears he can feel the puncture, does his best not to flinch away. That would not end well at all. Someone did that, last week. They really did have to get help from a mage healer, to fix that.

On his way back to the dorms, the taste of copper and salt in his mouth, he crosses through the back of the receiving hall. He shouldn’t but it’s shorter. There aren’t guests in often and even if there are, they won’t see him back here.

Of course he would not be so lucky. Before he has crossed half the distance there are voices, up front. “Come now, brother. You cannot tell me you don’t have needs! You’re a man.”

A put upon sigh. “Oliver, for all that’s good and holy, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Fasta Vas! You’ll be the end of us, I swear.” Two men, apparently, and they both sound rather exasperated in their own way. Alain does his best to be quiet, to reach the door before he will be caught. “Just think, a pet will do you good. Something you can spoil. You like things like that, don’t you?”

“May I help you, gentlemen?” Oh, botheration. If Madame Galitea is already there there’s no way he can leave, now. She’ll take the same way to get the slaves for those two to see and will catch him for sure.

“Yes!” It’s the excitable one. “My dearest brother here,” A sound like someone slapping someone else on the shoulder. “Is in dire need of company. Permanent company. Company that will take that frown off his face, if you take my meaning.”

“Of course.” To anyone who doesn’t know her she sounds perfectly polite. To Alain, who has learned to listen for these things, she sounds faintly disapproving. “And what would you be looking for in your company, my lord-?”

“Mellard Ameritus, Madame. A pleasure.” A pause. Alain peeks around the corner to see a tall, dark haired man bend over Galitea’s hand to kiss the air, as is proper. She looks much more approving, now, even impressed.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Magister.” _Bloody Void._ If he is caught here in danger of messing up a magister’s introduction to a new bed slave, he really will find out, personally, what they punish people with that they can’t whip, for fear of ruining their looks.

Alain misses what, exactly, the magister is looking for while he tries to calm himself before he is caught because his breathing is too loud. Galitea wanders off, someone brings in refreshments while they all wait. She comes back with a few of the fully trained bed slaves for their guests to mingle with.

Perhaps he can leave now? No, too many eyes. Maker, he will never do this again. He wouldn’t have, today, if his tongue wasn’t bothering him so much and all he had wanted was to get to his bed and declare the day over.

It feels like he stands there, behind the small dividing wall that plays at hiding the servant’s shortcuts, for hours. Every slave flitting back and forth to see their guests well provided for might ruin his cover at any moment. It’s nerve wracking.

One after the other the bed slaves are sent back to their quarters. By the look on Madame Galitea’s face she isn’t happy with that turn of events. She does pride herself in being able to find someone for every need a customer may have. “I’ll see if I don’t have someone more fitting, my lord. Just a moment.”

It won’t look good if she can’t. Alain has heard this house is praised for its selection.

He can believe it. There aren’t overly many of them but the variety is there.

“Now what do we have here?” The voice tears him from his thoughts and Alain’s heart threatens to give out. _Oh no._ He has missed one of them coming up right behind him, focused as he was on not being seen by the Madame herself. “It seems we’ve missed one, brother. Or maybe he was hiding?” The question sounds amused, thankfully. Not that that will save him.

Alain chances a look. If there is anything that will get him into more trouble than he is already in, it will be if he is rude to these guests of such high standing. It is the shorter one, the brother that isn’t buying. Or maybe is buying but not for himself. “Come now, little one. My brother doesn’t bite.” A grin steals across the man’s face. “Much.”

“What is it you’re on about now, Oliver?” _Oh Maker. This is it. I’ll insult a magister and it will be the last thing I’ll ever do. I haven’t even finished my etiquette lessons!_ The taller one, the magister, rounds the wall as well, takes in the scene with a sweep of his blue eyes. The colour is stunning, light and cool. It isn’t one Alain has seen often in the people here, more given to browns like his own birth place in Rivain. “You’re not bothering this poor boy, are you?”

‘Oliver’ makes a wounded sound, pressing a hand to his chest. “Such ingratitude! Here I am, going out of my way to help you and this is what I get!” The man seems to have a hang for the dramatic. He recovers impressively for how injured he sounds. “Have a look at this one. He’s cute. Isn’t that your kind of thing?”

The magister huffs a sigh, dismisses his brother from his attention to an outraged squawk, and turns the full force of it on the slave before him.

Alain swallows. It jostles his fresh piercing and makes him go cold all over. _Oh Maker, no._ His tongue, it’s all tender and swollen. Still numb from the medicine. There’s no way he will be able to not make a mess of this. “Avanna. Now, who would you be?”

Alain dithers over answering, but he can’t _not_. He’s already bungling this up badly enough. He knows he’s trembling and the man must see, too, if the faint frown stealing onto his face is any indication. “Avanna, my lord. I’m Alain.” Just as he had feared, there is a lisp to the whole thing.

The magister’s frown deepens before he cocks his head to the side. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

Alain flinches like he’s been hit but there’s nothing for it. “No. I’m sorry, I was just- I’m sorry. I meant no offence, I swear.” The lisp gets worse the more he speaks, the more agitated he gets. The numbness of his tongue is fading but that only means it hurts to talk.

Its then that Madame Galitea comes back. With her guests to point her way she catches sight of him immediately. He sees the expression that crosses her face when she does, a curious mix of anything from fury to worry. For him? For the sale hanging in balance here? Probably the second.

“My lords, there you are-“ Whatever excuse she might have made is cut off by the magister that doesn’t deign to look at her in favour of keeping his eyes on Alain.

“Tell me about this one.”

Galitea looks stunned, for just a second, before she muscles through. “Well. This is Alain. He is still new to our establishment. He has come to us from the South, where he was an Enchanter in one of their Circles.”

The man makes an interested sound, eyes falling to the collar around Alain’s neck. “So he is a mage?”

“Yes, my lord.” He waves for her to continue. Galitea clears her throat and does so in her most professional tone. “He’s fluid in Trade and Tevene in word and script and reads Arcanum as well. He specialises in Entropy and the Arcane and is passably competent in an herbalist’s task up to and including potion making. He’s a quick study, even in subjects he has no knowledge of initially. By all accounts, he will be a good match for a quiet household that encourages intellectual pursuits.” Alain can only stare at her, as she lists his qualities. It’s the most concise summary of his skills he has ever heard. Perhaps that is how she sells so many slaves so well?

Galitea’s mouth falls into a small frown. “I’m afraid, my lord, that he hasn’t gotten to music lessons yet and that his etiquette courses are unfinished, although he is showing an aptitude for them.” He is? No one has told him that.

“His behaviour,” Her eyes find his as she emphasizes the word, “Needs to be refined, still. He also hasn’t been fully advised in,” a delicate pause, “the more intimate matters his future master might require of him.”

And he has been dreading the very day he is fully adorned and all his piercings are healed up, because that will be when he has to attend the _practical_ lessons. The theory mixed in with behaviour and etiquette was bad enough. Alain can feel himself blanch even as she mentions the rest of it and he can’t do a single thing about it, no matter how disapprovingly she looks at him.

Silence falls. The magister hasn’t stopped mustering him and no one dares to interrupt. Not even the brother, apparently. Finally it seems as if the man has looked his fill. “I’ll take him. This is the one I want.”

It takes a moment for Alain’s mind to catch up to what his ears have just heard. His breath freezes inside his lungs. _What? But I haven’t even finished learning!_ Much as he has been dreading parts of his training they had at least given him a set timeframe, something to judge by how close he is to belonging to someone, to being sold.

No one buys a half-trained bed slave. No one. What would be the point? It just doesn’t _happen_.

Galitea looks every bit as shocked as he feels. “Beg pardon, my lord, his lessons will take months before they are finished.”

The magister does look at her, then, coolly. “Have him complete his etiquette course. He will not require the rest of it.”

 _I won’t?_ Again, their thoughts must run along similar lines. “If you are certain. You can, of course, always bring him back for remedial training.” She rallies one last time, even in the face of what might be a disapproving magister, of all things, her eyes flickering between Alain and the man in question. “I’m afraid even so he isn’t,“ There truly is no delicate way to say it, even for someone as versed as her. “Untouched.”

One could have heard a pin drop.

Alain isn’t sure if he wants for the man to reconsider, now, because that would mean he has to attend the lessons after all that he might _not require_ if he is bought right here. On the other hand if he didn’t have them he would have to please his new master anyway.

Would be bought and sold on a whim, to a man who had sounded like he didn’t think much of the idea of owning a bed slave when he had walked through the door. Like a kitten picked up out of a box.

But it isn’t his choice. None of this is his choice. He owns nothing, not even himself.

“That,” Alain would remember the words for a long time, the magister’s smooth voice, sealing where his path would lead him. “will not be a concern.”

 

 

News of his purchase spread like a wildfire. By the time he finally makes it back to the shared quarters, still in shock, everyone seems to know. The reactions vary.

“Him? But isn’t he still half-trained?”

“He is exotic enough, I suppose, Southern mage and all that.”

“I can’t _believe_ that quiet little mouse got bought before he’s even through the courses!”

“A magister? Seriously? I’m so _jealous_.” Lissanna, that. Of course. “Whatever did you do to catch his attention?”

 _I didn’t do anything. Stuttered. Made a mess of the introductions._ Alain can’t get any of that out, not that he thinks she would believe him.

She must take his inability to speak as a rebuff. Pouting and crossing her arms under her bosom in a way that does very favourable things for her cleavage, Lissanna huffs a put upon sigh. “Fine, keep your secrets. I could use the help, you know!”

He doubts that. She will be picked up as soon as she is done with lessons and turn her master’s head around with one of her coy little giggles in the blink of an eye. She’s perfect at those, so many of them are, but his- his master didn’t want them. He wanted Alain. Perhaps coy giggling isn’t to his taste.

So what _is_ to his taste, then? What little Alain has seen of the man doesn’t give him anything to go on. _Cute things_ , the brother had said. _Cute things that he can spoil._ _Was he such a thing?_

Alain lies awake that night, unable to sleep. He has lessons in the morning, more pressing than ever, he is sure. They will want him to be perfect for his master, especially now that that title has a name and a face and they know how highborn the man in question is.

Knowing that doesn’t help him find rest. His mind is running in circles, replaying the encounter over and over again. _What had made that man pick him? What did he want? What did he expect?_

Galitea had brought him back quietly, allowed the other slaves to fawn over him. He was sure she was still displeased with what had occurred. Had, maybe, even expected a punishment for his transgressions, no matter that he had an owner now.  

When they had reached his room and the others had been shooed away to their duties or their beds, she had given him a long look. There was something dark in her eyes, something unhappy in the slant of her mouth. What she had said, then, is still haunting him. “You be careful now, Alain. A man like your master can be a great prize but only if you can keep his interest. If he grows tired of you,” She sounded so blunt, none of the refinedness and tittering she usually used. Alain had never heard her like this. “If he gets bored with you, you’d best see that you’ve learned enough to go without the lessons you’ll be missing.”

Alain’s stomach is tied in knots, even more than it was after the magister had bought him. _What if I can’t satisfy him? What will happen to me then?_

_When, exactly, had what satisfying his master entailed and implied become the lesser of his fears?_

 

He studies more than ever. The burning certainty that he will _need_ to know this, all that they are teaching him, drives Alain forward like nothing else could. At the same time, he barely gets any sleep. After a few days of this a servant takes him aside and hands him the Valerian they keep for the more high-strung bed slaves, the ones that have a tendency towards hysterics.

He supposes it would look bad for them if he arrived at his master’s household looking like he hadn’t found rest in weeks.

Time flies. Before he knows it, he looks up from a completed sheet of phrases one might use to indicate preference without being pushy and his teacher tells him he is ready. _He isn’t. He has never felt less ready for anything. Not even his Harrowing, Maker help him._

There’s nothing to pack. He has no possessions. Even the clothes he wears aren’t his. He has to leave them behind in favour of the gold-trimmed red and the set of simple gold jewellery that all sold bed slaves are sent out in, to the tittering of servants that bemoan how red isn’t his colour. How it can’t be helped, since it’s their house’s colours, but isn’t it a shame.

It feels like being wrapped as a present.

But that’s what it is, isn’t it? He’s being wrapped to be shipped out. Like a bolt of cloth. Alain feels divorced from himself, follows directions mechanically. He’s a thing, here. Never has it been more obvious, not even when his deed passed hands all but in front of him.

Soon, he will be in his owner’s home. Soon, he will find out what is expected of him. What he can expect of his life, now, for however long he can keep his master’s favour.

No matter what he does his hands will not stop shaking.

There is an escort waiting in the receiving room when Alain is presentable. Guards in amour that seems more fit for a parade than to fight in. Plate polished to a shine, light brown leather against blue cloth. It’s the colour of his new household, that shade of blue. That’s one of the few things he has been told.

‘Your master and his servants will instruct you in your duties when you get there.’ Had been the consensus. It did nothing to calm his nerves.

As it turns out a bed slave is too fine a thing to be made to walk to his new home, apparently. They usher him into a small carriage, under bows and courtesy. Was that normal? Were they slaves, too, and it was just their place to be so deferent?

Alain tries to think on things such as these and not on what is waiting for him on the end of this journey. The streets of Minrathous are as splendid as ever. He wonders if he will be in a position to find joy in that one day. They pass shops and market stalls, even a towering fountain that must be the height of decadence, the climate being what it is. He doubts whomever put it there would have it filled with sea water.

The air is fresh, hot as it is, and the smells carried by the faint breeze are wonderful. Spices and fruit, flowers. Food, when they pass a stand that sells fried goods, hearty meat and fish. Baked bread and garlic. Alain’s stomach cramps. He hasn’t managed to eat much, at breakfast. That was hours ago.

 _Perhaps he would get something before his master required his presence?_ What a foolish thing to think. He should have eaten. Now he would suffer for it and he only had himself to blame.

They come to a halt in front of what can only be called an estate. There are artfully arranged flower beds out front, blooming in all colours, and the air is sweet with the smell of them. Alain steels himself and tries to keep his posture the way he has been taught. It will not do to make a bad first ( _Second?_ ) impression.

The inside of the house is cool, the thick stone walls keeping the heat outside despite the high windows. Perhaps there is magic in play as well. Most of his guard stays outside or disappears in the first few steps, leaving him with just a single one of them to show him the way. Alain catches glimpses of what must be the house slaves but they are quick. Too quick for a good look. _Does his master keep them well? Will he keep him well, too, if he does?_

The house is airy and full of light. It surprises him. Alain isn’t quite sure why. Maybe some lingering expectation from stories long past, told in dorm rooms after curfew. Of what the house of a magister must be like. Of how someone so powerful and so likely to be mired in blood magic would live. It had always sounded very scary, then, which was probably why the older apprentices always told them those things. Now he is here, it is nothing like the dark, corrupted places they had always spun stories of and still it is nerve-wracking.

Finally, he is shown into what must have been a private dining room. _A parlour._ The words come like a whisper from the back of his mind. So much to learn, in so little time.

His guard excuses himself, leaves him a step past the threshold with the door closing behind him. He isn’t _alone,_ though.

The second time in Alain’s life that he is confronted with Magister Ameritus is no less fraught than the first. _Maker’s Breath, get your act together. How are you going to please him if you can’t even face him?_

For want of other options he falls back onto his training. That, Alain supposes, was the entire point of drilling him until he could follow the directions in his sleep. Once the man looks at him, he’s bowing the perfect depth almost before he knows it. “Avanna, Master. I hope this day finds you well.” At least his tongue was obeying him this time.

There’s the sound of a chair moving and he isn’t supposed to steal glances. He isn’t. He knows that now. It leaves Alain frozen where he is, until his master is right in front of him. Knuckles hook under his chin and, gently, guide him into looking up, at the man that owns him. The man that literally holds his life in his hands, to do with as he pleases.

The magister is just as tall as he remembered. Alain had thought, perhaps, that his memory was playing tricks on him but no. Blue eyes and an angular face, skin a warm brown not quite as dark as his own. He seems thoughtful, perhaps? It’s the same unhurried study he afforded Alain the last time, when he chose him. The touch is new. He feels it like a firebrand. His master’s hand is warm but it’s clear he brooks no argument.

Is there something he should do? Perhaps a lesson he has missed? It would explain how Lissanna and most of the others knew how to be so smooth, about everything, how to laugh at just the right moment and entice others to laugh with them.

“Avanna.” His master has a smooth voice, cultured. He sounds like he can be patient. Alain can only hope that proves to be right. “I suppose I’m well enough. I hear you’ve outdone yourself in your lessons.”

Had he? Alain isn’t sure but he will certainly not say that, not when his master sounds so pleased about it. A thumb strokes across his cheek and he does his best not to startle, to stay still for whatever this man wants of him. Of course that is the moment the smell of curry and other spices proves to be too much for his empty stomach. The rumbling is entirely too loud in the quiet between them and so sudden Alain flinches with it.

When his eyes find his master’s face again, there is a frown that makes him shrink inside. “Did you not eat before you left?”

There is a response required here and little to lead him forward but his own discretion. He ducks instinctively, years of practice in the Circle outweighing months of training, no matter how rigorous it might have been, before his master’s touch reminds him that he shouldn’t. He tries to follow but it doesn’t really work. At least the pressure under his chin is light enough to allow for that. _Perhaps that means his master will not mind?_ Alain clings to the small hope and rushes into an explanation. “No, I did, I-“ The obvious half-truth dies in his throat. Silence falls.

After a moment, where his master says nothing, he continues, voice as quiet as a Chantry mouse. “I was too nervous.”

A slight tap to his chin, accompanied by a click of his master’s tongue. “Oh, pet. Come now, we’ll fix that.”

 

 

Alain soon finds that the interactions with his master going forward fit the pattern set the first day. When in his presence, and the man isn’t distracted by work, he will give Alain his attention. There will be touch, mostly chaste and always gentle. The man will ask after his needs and his day. Sometimes, he will feed him pieces of fruit or other indulgences by hand.

It really is a little like being a pet. _A pet,_ he soon decides, _is not the worst thing one can be. He has been worse things in his life, surely._

He certainly prefers his master calling him to his lap, so he can pet him while he reads, to many other things that could be done.

It feels a little, too, like they are getting to know each other. His master will ask after his past, after his interests. He does not force answers, skirts the times when his bed slave will go entirely quiet and pale with all the tact expected of a man in his position. When Alain dares to ask questions in return, to make conversation, he will often answer them.

He truly seems to listen to what his pet tells him, as well. If he picks up on something Alain might be missing it will be provided before long. A longing look at his private library is enough to be assured he may read at his leisure.

He doesn’t even have to ask to lose the collar. It’s taken away with the clothes he came in and he never sees either again. It’s so good to feel his magic, to have back this thing that has been with him as long as Alain can recall, without a barrier in the way. He may even use it. Train, if he likes. His master has offered to _assist_. Apparently his posture could do with some work. The entire exchange is strange beyond belief.

_(It is, perhaps, telling that running away never comes to his mind. Not until later, when the action seems ridiculous and dangerous to boot. He’s fine. Every of his needs is provided for. No one is hurting him. It’s only proper to keep his head down and make the best of it._

_He has been well trained and that long before the slavers caught him.)_

Alain remembers Lissanna, how she said they would be entertainment, and he can see it. In the way his master calls on him for discussion, idle and not. The way he is asked to be partner for a game, when it strikes his master’s fancy. But there are things he hasn’t been called to do. Things he knows he should be doing.

He is a bed slave, after all.

It cannot be that the man isn’t interested. Alain has seen him look. He makes no secret of it and he has no need to do such. But that is all it ever is, looks and petting. Sometimes a kiss, pressed to his hair, his brow, his cheek, more affectionate than anything else. If it weren’t so absurd Alain would think Magister Ameritus is waiting for him to allow it.

He is getting better, but the first few days, stretching into a week and more, he would freeze at any hint of touch that might mean things would- that they would be taken to bed. But why would his master care about that? He owns him. He may do as he likes.

Still, Alain is grateful for the reprieve. For the chance to get used to being touched, by his master’s hands. Yet, the longer it takes, the more uneasy he gets about the affair. He wants his master to be pleased. That’s all that’s keeping him here, in good standing. Perhaps he should- perhaps he should ask. Or offer. Or however else one approaches this, in his position. Perhaps he will. He may join his master in the evenings, any time he likes. To read, to stretch out on the skewedly-shaped couch and doze, anything at all. To be company, he supposes, like his master’s brother had teased what feels like ages ago.

Perhaps he should come to him for more than that. It would make the man happy, surely, wouldn’t it? If he can just conquer his nerves enough to do so.

 


End file.
